


Thirty Days

by Apple_Fairy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apple_Fairy/pseuds/Apple_Fairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of the alliance Arthur tries to cope with a love he was never able to confess. He once heard it would take thirty days to overcome a broken heart. So he begins to count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Days

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from Tumblr. A vent piece. It's not so much asakiku as it is one sided and Arthur trying to cope. It's also not too historically accurate; my apologies. I hope you enjoy.

He’d once heard it would take thirty days to get over a broken heart.

When he was first told that he thought it was terribly stupid, as if heart break and recovery was an illness that could be measured in days. As if someone only had to count down the days and the hours and the minutes and forget so easily a soft voice, a kind hand, a sweet smile. So Arthur Kirkland waved away the advice. But now, when faced with heartbreak, he thought back to that advice. He ignored it, however, and decided to just deal with it like he always did.

With alcohol and indifference and swallowing the lump in his throat.

* * *

 

Of course he realized this was his own fault. It had been a mess of old wounds, and preference and oh blue-eyed boy of his it was so hard to turn him down, s _o hard…_

 _I don’t trust him,_ he had told him, _he’s only working for himself. He’s always so quiet. He’s plotting something. I don’t trust him, Arthur, not at all._

At the time Arthur had reacted with frustration, you don’t know him like I do. Don’t talk so terribly. How dare you.

But of course because it was his golden child, and maybe he had an inkling too, those words stuck to his brain, rumbling in the deep, something that scratched like a thorn in his skull.

And the next days when he was with Kiku, he felt disconnected and the light of those moments dimmed a bit and he knew he couldn’t ignore the cracks. _Why don’t you smile,_ he wondered as Kiku served him tea. _Why do you always act so reserved?_

(What he didn’t say was _Please open up to me so I don’t have to be suspicious of you like this, please give me your all, I want to trust you, trust you, trust you…_ )

Kiku sat unaware as this suspicious seed in Arthur’s head grew and grew and soon enough his vision of Kiku was permanently dirtied and nothing would be the same again.

And of course there was the politics too, and he knew this day would come, because nations weren’t human. Oh, they could pretend as they always do of course, hold a precious lie for a few years. But all good things came to an end.

And so coupled with all that, Arthur called it off.

It was a terribly messy affair that he doesn’t like to remember, but sometimes he gets flashes of in the middle of sleepless nights. It’s strange though, because Kiku did not react how he thought he would. He did not cry or cling to his coat and beg him why. He did not get angry and furious and throw his things or break old presents. There were no dramatic outbursts of tears and _Oh God why?_

Kiku wasn’t that young.

He instead accepted it with cold understanding. When Arthur finally told him what he wanted he had merely bowed his head.

 _I’m very sorry to hear that_. He told him, _But I understand. Thank you for our time together._

Arthur wanted Kiku to scream at him.

He wanted him to cry. To hit him. Say all the nasty things he’d been keeping in for years. He wanted him to _react_. God, he was always so cold, even during this, and it frustrated Arthur it made him feel so empty and lesser. _Why won’t you open up to me._ He wondered, _What do I really mean to you?_

They left on a note that left him feeling hollow.

He still felt that to this day and he tried filling it with a pint of ale but the hole in his heart was too deep.

On one bleary, tear-stained night he looks up from the kitchen table to the calendar on his wall.

 _Twenty-five more days to go_ , he thought to himself and fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

 

Of course he didn’t spend this whole time sulking, for God’s sakes there was still a world around him that he had to deal with. And he was able to do this all with a broken heart. His body could still move, it was just the insides that ached. And it was mostly because of all the unanswered questions, and the ignored neediness, and the unsatisfied ending. Everything else around him was in motion, it was just his mind that was stuck in the same place. Replaying the memories over and over, like a scratched record, or a repetitive film and all he could do was sit there and watch the same thing again and again. It was as if he was trying to find a double meaning to it, examined every word and motion and there must’ve been something more. There _had_ to be something more.

(It hurt too much to think there wasn’t.)

It was incredibly selfish how he wanted him to hurt with him. But it was all Arthur could think of to believe Kiku had felt something. Because he had been so emotionless and so aloof and so unreal. Were those kind words only politeness? Were those smiles just a reaction? What had been him and what had been courtesy? Did he like him or the alliance? Did he make any mark on his heart at all?

(Just once he wanted him crying in his arms. Just once he wanted him to make a passionate confession.)

But Arthur, in the end, felt empty. Maybe his self-esteem was too low. Maybe he should’ve trusted more. Maybe he didn’t love enough.

And so he kept going down this same road, cycling through the same footage, tried to make sense of it all.

But in the end, the film always clicked off, and the room was dark, and he still sat there unsatisfied and empty.

* * *

 

Twenty days away from feeling okay was when the regrets and the self-hatred set in.

_I’m not good with conversation. That must be why._

_He was only thinking of it as an alliance, I’m the one who wanted too much._

_Just because he wanted the alliance doesn’t mean he wanted to be together._

_I’m being selfish._

_I wanted too much._

_This always happens why did I expect anything else._

_I was too desperate._

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Arthur hates it. There are so many reasons he hates himself, it was honestly never ending.

* * *

 

He began to love work because it kept his mind off it all. He liked doing the paperwork because it was mindless and he felt efficient. He liked going to meetings and talking politics because it was easier to navigate through then lovelorn feelings. He liked planning and organizing and all those unfeeling things without strings attached. Just pure work. But when he turned out the light in his study he began to dread returning to bed. Because the endless thoughts would cycle through his mind again and he wouldn’t be able to hold them back any longer. So he’d go out for walks in his neighborhood, walking moonlit cobblestone streets, watching the nightlife of London, the dimly lit pubs and the older folks walking back home from work. And he passes by all his dear children and wonders how they feel, wonders how they cope, wonders if they knew.

He began feeling like the outside looking in. But he liked being around other people because he thought of them more than himself.

But when he got home the house still felt hopelessly oppressive. It’s as if his ghost was still here, and it haunted Arthur constantly while he probably slept on peacefully unaware.

No matter how much he tried to avoid it, Arthur would have to sleep too. And the moments before sleep were like torture.

* * *

 

Fifteen days in, Arthur figured out his diagnosis.

It was just a matter of unresolved issues on his part combined with a love that was not returned.

Arthur loved Kiku. It only took him a break up and fifteen days to realize it, but he was in love.

He supposed he was aware there was attraction, but he’d never taken the time to realize how serious it was or give it a name. But he finally realized he had been in love, had wanted to be the one to make him happy and to make him laugh. He wanted Kiku to feel that same way too. And to be honest, it was also selfish how it had to be _him_ to make Kiku happy, but that was just how the love had felt and that’s just how Arthur was. He could nitpick this affection on all sides and ends, but he was too tired to. He was in love. That’s all he could say.

And Kiku didn’t love him back.

He came to that conclusion alongside the diagnosis and it hurt twice as much.

It made sense, though. Why he was so cold compared to Arthur’s affection, why he reacted so formally, why Arthur was always left wanting more. It’s because he _did_ want more, he wanted Kiku to feel the same, and he _hadn’t._ And surely now, he never would. These feelings would remain untold forever.

It made Arthur’s heart ache and his stomach hurt, and he did not cry because he had more pride than that.

Instead, after coming to terms with this, Arthur made himself a cup of tea and read Chaucer to cheer himself up.

He was rather proud of himself when he pretended the liquor cabinet was not there.

* * *

 

Arthur stopped counting the days then. He felt like there was an invisible timer after that point, and he put trust into it. Into himself.

Twelve days away, he let himself cry.

He was coming back from a meeting with his boss ( _Germany’s acting strange, him and Italy are much too friendly, etc etc)_ when he took off his coat and put it away. His mind was flitting through things he had to do ( _I’ll make myself some lunch, and then I need to get started on all that paperwork, etc etc)_ as he headed for the kitchen.

Sadness is a cruel bitch that gets you just as you feel stable again. She knocks you down, right into the dirt and laughs and laughs and you’re too disoriented to get yourself back together again. It was something he thought he’d forgotten and had gotten over, but as always it’s the smallest flame that lights a bomb.

It was as he opened the cabinet to make himself a cuppa that he saw it. Long ago Kiku had bought him a tea mug as a gift, something pretty and sturdy, a sprinkle of cherry blossoms on the side. He had completely forgotten about it. But, as always, he’d never forgotten about him.

Arthur began tearing up.

It all fell on him like a dam breaking, and when he questioned what was wrong with him, he found even more reasons to cry. His chest tightened up, and his breath came in short gasps, and the room felt small, so small. He made a hissing sound, like taking a wound and he gripped the heart that ached. He made ugly hiccupping sounds and he let it happen. He let it out. In the quiet gray kitchen Arthur broke down.

He took the tea cup. He hugged it to his chest. It was cold and small just like his love.

Arthur crumpled to the floor and he cried and cried and cried until there was nothing left.

Fifteen minutes later the worn out man sniffled and felt tired and he looked tremendously pathetic gripping the mug. But two minutes past and he got up. He made himself a cup of tea and a sandwich and got back to work.

His soul felt so much lighter.

* * *

 

Arthur’s dreams usually consisted of sad moments where he couldn’t talk, as if he was Anderson’s mermaid, and Kiku remained unaware of his feelings. They consisted of frustrations, and too lates, and Alfred giving him orders he followed obediently like a dog.

On the sixth day, he dreamt something different.

They were on a bridge. Arthur recognized it, Big Ben stark against the background, and what caught him first was how empty the street was. The sun was rising prettily, the day feeling crisp and new, and there stood Kiku looking at it, back turned to him.

Arthur called out for him. For once, Kiku turned to him. He smiled.

They had a pleasant conversation for once. As they both looked out to the sunrise, Kiku told him how much he liked autumn and Arthur vaguely recalls having this same conversation during their alliance. Kiku told him how he disliked the taste of radishes, but was fond of ghost stories. Kiku liked dogs, but was fonder of cats. He liked mornings. He missed flower arranging, he should try that again soon. The works of Da Vinci caught his eye, but Hokusai’s works would always have a place in his heart. He wanted to visit Kyoto soon, possibly during spring.

It took Arthur awhile, because he was too wrapped up in how beautiful Kiku looked then. It took him awhile, but he finally realized these were all the things he had told him back then, and they were the  reasons why Arthur fell in love with him. The likes and dislikes had charmed him, and Kiku’s soft, sweet nature had taken his heart. It was the lovely black hair, and the calm profile, and the careful words. It was like everything was an art with Kiku and Arthur loved watching him and being with him. He was what comforted him. He was what his heart wanted.

But as Kiku talked on, the background around him grew dim, and Arthur talked over him, finally, frustrated.

“I don’t _care_.” He blurted out. Kiku stopped, confused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said I don’t care.” He spoke, as if hearing the words too, “I…I could really give less of a damn.”

Arthur laughed, and he thought he was going mad, but it felt so good to say this, so freeing. He looked Kiku in the eye, and his love’s face was hurt. It was oddly satisfying.

“Just shut up.” He told him, power and confidence to his tone.

A long moment passed, and the sun set, the stars glowing in the sky. Arthur realized they were somewhere different now (had they really been on London bridge before?). It was the hill, he realized, the hill he had run to him to. The place they agreed to the alliance. He didn’t question it because no one questions anything when they dream.

Kiku began to cry.

His face looked strange wearing such stark emotion, the likes of which Arthur had never seen him express before. He scrunched his face up, like a child not getting their way and he shook his head.

“How can you be so _horrible_?”

It was exactly what Arthur had wanted in the first place. He smiled as Kiku broke down in front of him. He doesn’t remember what he said to him; he might not have said anything at all. But he remembers walking past him as Kiku sank to his knees, hands covering his face, and Arthur walked down the fairytale-like hill. He vaguely remembers what he did after that (he took a cab or something and was sent on this wild goose chase looking for a flower shop or something, he could barely remember). But that didn’t matter, he realized on waking. The rest of the dream was usual dream gibberish, but what stayed with him was that moment on the bridge.

It was like swimming to the surface. He felt like he was finally able to breathe after so, so long.

* * *

 

Three days to go, and the world was busy falling all around him. He forgot an unreturned love. He could barely remember the rose-tinted memories. The world was back in focus and his heart felt lighter, and he was able to focus on what mattered.

He stopped thinking of what could have beens. He stopped wishing for the impossible. He stopped thinking of him as Kiku and started calling him Japan.

That’s how Arthur overcame a broken heart.

* * *

 

On the thirtieth day, he declared war on Japan.


End file.
